


relaxation, relaxation

by DictionaryWrites



Series: Hooking Me [2]
Category: Peter Pan (2003), Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Affection, Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Orgasm, Overstimulation, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 21:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9091240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Hook is irritable, and is in need of relaxation. Smee is comfortable approaching alternative relaxation strategy.





	

“Go away, Smee,” Hook says as soon as he hears his office door open, and although he immediately hears it click closed again, he knows that Smee is on the wrong side. Though he does not turn his head to look, he hears Smee’s boots on the red carpet of the room and then on the varnished wood of the raised platform where Hook’s desk is, hears the leather of his belt tapping loosely against itself where it isn’t fastened properly in the loops of his trousers, and he feels by pure instinct the presence of Smee beside his chair.

Hook sits very stiffly in his seat, his feet pointed out and the heels against the ground, and he holds his head in his hands, massaging the bridge of his nose with his thumb.

He is _utterly_ exhausted, and he feels fatigue in his every muscle and bone, feeling the vague throb at the back of his head – the feeling of a headache threatening to take over him, and he wishes to be left in the complete silence of his office for another twelve hours before the idiocies of his crew are once more inflicted upon him. It has been a long day of countless errors and mistakes by what seems like every man on the _Roger_ , and he just wants to be alone.

“You alright, Jim?” Smee’s voice is very quiet and low, his tone obviously formulated not to grate on Hook’s already tender nerves, and Hook takes his hand an inch away from his face to glance at him. Ah. So they are on _those_ terms. Smee’s expression is serious as he examines him, and Hook lets his eyes close once more as Smee’s hand reaches out and combs its way gently into Hook’s curls.

Smee’s hand is warm and a pleasant weight against Hook’s scalp, and Hook inhales as he feels the wonderful, distracting touch of Smee’s thumb against his scalp. It has been some time since Pan had allowed all of his children to flee and some time more since-

Since Smee had kissed him.

It has changed virtually nothing at all.

Smee has stood closer to him in the privacy of Hook’s quarters, has kissed him goodnight five or six times – on the forehead, the cheek, and only once on the mouth; Smee has touched Hook’s shoulders and his hair no more than usual, but for now.

“I’m tired,” is the only thing Hook says, and Smee’s hand draws slowly away from his hair. Hook feels most _pathetic_ to hear the melancholy rich in his own voice, the exhaustion, and when Hook feels Smee step neatly between his knees, he opens his eyes again to peer up at him. Smee reaches out, unbuckling Hook’s belt and drawing it away to set it aside.

“Let’s get you ready for bed,” Smee murmurs, and he leans forwards, his hands beginning to slowly unbutton Hook’s waistcoat before moving onto his blouse; Hook is only in his shirtsleeves, and when Smee pushes Hook’s shirt aside, leans in, and kisses him, Hook sighs into the other man’s mouth. He lets Smee kiss him, feels the roughness of the other man’s stubble against his cheeks and his chin, and when Smee draws away again, Hook continues leaning back in his seat, his eyes closed.

He feels Smee lean down between Hook’s legs, letting him unbuckle Hook’s shoes and draw them from his feet. He hears the quiet _clop_ of the wooden heels against the polished wood beneath them, and then Smee’s fingers once more go to the waistband of Hook’s trousers, unfastening them and then going to his undergarments.

“Edmund,” Hook murmurs, keeping his eyes closed and reaching blindly to cup the side of Smee’s cheek, his thumb draws over the harsh brush of the stubble there, and he enjoys the delightful warmth of the other man’s flesh under his palm. “I’ll undress in a moment.”

“Needn’t do that, Jim,” Smee says, and Hook’s brow furrows, but just as he leans forwards to speak, he feels Smee’s thumb against him, and stiffens.

Hook has never been a man of especial sexual appetites. He has kissed women in his time, and deflowered them in one port or other, but he had never truly been all that interested in the bodies of the women he had bedded – the carnality had been a perfunctory matter, one that he laid his attention to but one he gained no particular satisfaction from, even in his own release. Neverland itself lays some dampening upon certain appetites too, though Hook has never noticed a particular effect on his own lacking ones.

In the past few weeks, however, he has found his mind… straying.

Watching Smee he has noticed particularly the weight in the other man’s muscles, the shine of the Neverland sun on his shirtless back when he polishes silver in the warmth outside, and his _hands_ …

“Edmund,” Hook says hoarsely, and Smee’s thumb presses to the base of Hook’s prick, his hand wrapping slowly about it. Hook tips his head back slightly, his lips parting, as he feels the other man’s hand coaxing him into---

Interest.

He feels heat rushing downwards, feels himself swelling slightly, feels the growing sensitivity of his own flesh as it becomes flush with blood, and he gasps slightly as Smee tightens his grip. Smee is right-handed, his dominant hand fisting over Hook as his left hand presses against Hook’s thigh.

“Is this your new strategy for ensuring my relaxation?” Hook says, and he cannot help but be irritated by the quaver in his voice – not of fear, of anger, or any emotion Hook is more intimately familiar with, but with _excitement_. Trepidation, pleasure, _fascination_ , all take over him in turns, and Smee’s filthy little chuckle is hot against the inside of Hook’s knee and sends a tremor up his spine.

“Nah, Jim,” Smee says lightly, amused. “This is.”

“Wh- _ah, I- E-“_ Every vowel sound in the English language seems to tumble from the tip of his traitorous tongue, and his one hand grabs tightly at the arm of the chair as Smee’s mouth, _his mouth, his mouth!_ touches wetly to the head of Hook’s prick. Smee’s tongue draws cleverly in fat, wet lines over the edges of his foreskin, making every part of him _throb_ , and Hook hates the sounds that come from his mouth unbidden – when has he ever moaned so _loudly_?

Smee’s tongue draws from the very base of Hook’s shaft to the sensitive bundle of nerves beneath his head, tracing the raphe in the same way he’d trace tailor’s chalk on fabric with his sewing scissors. Of course, Smee’s tongue is as sharp as his wits are – as sharp again as a smooth opal.

“ _Ed---“_ The name cuts off into a guttural moan as Smee sucks at the base of him, his tongue playing just at the edge of the purse hanging below his member, and he cannot believe this, cannot believe that Smee is doing this so easily and so quickly and so _skilfully_ , his hands a weight on Hook’s thighs and keeping him from bucking his hips. Hook’s eyes are closed so tightly he feels that soon he might never be able to open them again, and although his mouth is open is jaw is clenched _tightly_ , his entire body stiff.

“Thought you didn’t want to call me Ed?” Smee’s amused response is immediately overwritten by his putting his lips about Hook’s head like it’s the simplest thing in the world and then _lowering his mouth_. Hook has never had anyone’s mouth on his member before – on his lips, on his neck, even on his chest, but never like this, and Smee drops his head to the _throat_. He takes Hook right inside him, until Hook can feel the twitch and tightening of Smee’s gullet about him, and it’s _obscene_.

“I _can’t---_ ” Smee swallows around him, lets his lips draw over the skin at the very base of Hook’s prick, and Hook feels sweet and shooting heat through his flesh, tingling in his nipples, his testicles, his _everything_ -

Hook can see it running through his mind as an anatomical diagram: the twitch of the penis and the tightening of the foreskin and the scrotal purse as one in conjunction with the internal workings of the muscles in the pelvic floor, and-

Smee hums the first note of the _Irish Rover_ , and Hook lets out a sharp cry when he feels the _vibrations_ through his flesh as he takes his release. Smee just swallows more, and when he finally draws back, Hook is left with his legs twitching and shaking, his breathing heavy, his heart pounding, and he just feels a wonderful _rush_ within him.

Hook’s knees are _quivering_ , and when he presses them together, Smee displays obviously that he doesn’t care. Settling himself in Hook’s lap like some tavern girl, he lays his hand on Hook’s shoulder, and he grins at him.

“I hope you don’t believe I’m going to allow you to kiss me after _that_ ,” Smee’s thumb touches Hook’s chin, and he draws him into a kiss once more – Hook tastes mostly salt on Smee’s tongue, and it isn’t nearly as bitter as he had expected. He sits just so, with Smee’s weight on top of him, a lingering warm glow inside him, and with his nose against Smee’s. Smee reaches for his hook, holding it in his hand and drawing the pad of his thumb over its curve of it.

“You feeling less stressed?”

“Mildly. Perhaps I’d feel more so were you lighter.”

“Ah, shut up. You don’t complain when I’m in bed with you.”

“You’re _warm_ when you’re in bed with me.”

“Ain’t I warm now?”

“Not sufficiently.” Smee laughs, his throaty chuckles landing against Hook’s neck, and he smirks, letting Smee kiss him and leaning into the touch of his mouth against Hook’s forehead.

“You’ve never had that before, have ya? Never had a man’s tongue on your todger.”

“If you call it that again,” Hook says delicately, “I’m going to drop you on the ground.” Smee grins at him. His lower-right incisor is made of gold. “I’ve never engaged with a man at all, nor engaged in _anything_ but simple, plebeian arrangements with simple, plebeian port girls.”

“What the ‘ell does plee-being mean when it’s at home?” Smee asks, distractedly curling one of Hook’s ringlets with his finger, and Hook stares at him.

“A word pilfered from the streets of Ancient Rome – a commoner, a member of the lower class. You ought read a book now and then.”

“Don’t like books.” Hook pulls a face, and to wipe it away Smee kisses him again. Hook allows it, basks in it, allows himself the freedom to bury his face in Smee’s shoulder, inhale the scent of woodshavings and Hook’s cigar smoke and varnish clinging to his body, and Smee says into Hook’s hair, “I like you a fair bit, mind.”

“Shut up,” Hook says, pulling Smee slightly closer to him, and he relaxes with the weight of the other man in his lap.


End file.
